Yours,

Peter

2/20, 2:13 pm

From: Maxfield, Michelle

To: Farrow, Peter W SPC

Subject: Sexy pics (3 attachments)

Pictures of nougat attached. What did you think it was?!

Open at your own risk.…

xo

Michelle

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Several days later Kelsey was sitting on her side of the porch, trying to keep a pile of Art History notecards from escaping into the March wind as she studied. The smell of grilled burgers hung in the air, as it often did when her father tested recipes for the restaurants’ annual menu changes. Kelsey was happy to see him experimenting with portabella mushrooms for the sake of the vegetarians. It was in memory of Mitch, he told her. Meanwhile, her mother had attempted to organize the growing stacks of marked-up papers and books that now nearly hid her wild hair as she sat at her desk. “Organize” apparently meant “buy plastic bins from Target and let them sit near the stacks of papers,” but at least she was trying. They were all trying, even Kelsey. Midterms were coming up.

From Art Through the Ages, she read, “In Cubist artwork, objects are analyzed, broken up, and reassembled in an abstracted form—instead of depicting objects from one viewpoint, the artist depicts the subject from a multitude of viewpoints to represent the subject in a greater context.”

Like looking at an ice cube that has broken on the floor, she wrote in the margins. Looking at all angles of something three dimensional all at once.

It was nice to be at home in the afternoon.

Basketball season was over, so dance practice wouldn’t resume until after spring break. She and Gillian had been carefully toeing the line between the way they used to be and the way they were, just enough to convince everyone at school that nothing was wrong.

Kelsey and Davis had exchanged conciliatory texts, then emoticons and funny pictures, because that was the way they did things, and her senior year was passing so quickly, and the work was piling on, and it was easy to forget a fight when mint-green leaves were poking through the soggy ground. And today, Peter was supposed to call. When he called, nothing else seemed as important.

Right on time, bright beeps floated from the laptop beside her. Out of habit, Kelsey wiped her eyes, then remembered she wasn’t wearing makeup today. Her hair was already down, too, waving just like Michelle’s in the cool, wet air.

Peter was in a gray army-issue T-shirt, the too-powerful floodlights casting definition on his chest, the tattoo on his forearm. It was night there. When he saw her, he clapped his hands together, giving her the biggest smile Kelsey had ever seen.

“Guess what?”

“You’re not in your uniform,” Kelsey observed.

“These are my pajamas,” Peter said, dismissing them with a pluck of his sleeve. “So, I’ve got—”

“When do you get to wear the fancy version of your uniform, the one with the hat?”

“Privates don’t get fancy uniforms, and I think you’re thinking of the Marines. Anyway, I—”

“You do have a hat, though,” Kelsey said, her smile growing as Peter got more and more flustered. She liked to tease him, especially since she could tell whatever news he had was good.

“Hey!” he called out. “Yes, I have a frickin’ hat! But, that’s not what I want to tell you.”

Kelsey waited, folding her hands calmly as if to say, I’m all ears.

Peter looked at her, cautious, waiting for another ridiculous question. When it didn’t come, he started again. “So, I just found out—”

“What is it that you wanted to tell me?” Kelsey jumped on him again before he could finish, her face innocent.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh, and said, “Oh my God, forget it! Check your email.”

“No, what is it? I promise I won’t interrupt.”

Peter made an I-give-up expression, and lifted his hands. “Check your email. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay…” Kelsey muttered, and brought up her browser to sign into Michelle’s email.

The newest was from Peter, and the subject line read: “Fwd: Your American Airlines Itinerary.”

American Airlines? Someone was flying.

Everything in Kelsey’s body seemed to speed up as she clicked into the email. It was a plane ticket. For Michelle. The date was next week. The point of origin: MCI, Kansas City International Airport. The destination: CDG, Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France.

She screamed, high and fast, and put a hand over her open mouth. She could hear Peter’s laughter, and clicked back over to his image on the screen.

“We were given a three-day leave. Sam and another buddy and me are going to Paris. And you are, too. So, there it is.”

Kelsey removed her hand from her mouth, and tried to keep her panic from showing. “How could you afford this?”

“U.S. military flies free on air force planes if we ride up top, with the cargo. Your ticket wasn’t so bad, trust me. I had some money saved up.”

“Peter, this is amazing, but I have school. My parents won’t let me. I don’t know where my passport is. I…”

Kelsey was shooting off excuses, all except for the most important one: It hadn’t been her dream to go to Paris, it had been Michelle’s. Michelle spoke French. Michelle loved art museums. Michelle sang Edith Piaf (out of tune, of course) in the shower.

“It’s only for a weekend,” Peter said hopefully. Disappointment was beginning to edge in on his open face, but he didn’t give up. “Come on,” he said quietly.

Kelsey’s heart was breaking. She had to look away, to think. Because Michelle’s ghost was back again, her outline and coconut smell, made of memories she’d never have, egging her on from the empty side of the porch. Come on, she heard Michelle’s voice echo in her head. For me.

Then she looked back at Peter, who was not pressuring her, just sitting in his pajamas with that faraway look in his blue eyes. “Please,” he said, his smile returning as if he already knew her answer.

“Yes,” Kelsey said, and the wind picked up, tossing her Art History notecards into a flock of white squares in the air, like a sign from something invisible, though she wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.

“Yes!” Peter shouted. He stood up and shouted, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Kelsey laughed at his antics and stood to catch the notecards, which were now scattered all over the porch. “Hang on!” she called to him.

“I’m going to bed before you change your mind,” she heard him say from the computer. “Good night.” The call dropped.

Kelsey had a lot to do.

Midnight rolled around, and Kelsey took her place at her parents’ door. She would tell them she wanted to go on a Prospective Student weekend at KU, where she would have to stay overnight in the dorms. She would ask them at their most vulnerable and sleepy, so they wouldn’t ask too many questions. She cleared her throat, so her voice would be soft and unassuming. She was wearing her old bunny slippers. It was all a part of the plan.

“Mom? Dad?” She cracked open the door.

Startled snorts from her father, and a quiet “What?” from her mother.

“Can I come in?”

Five minutes later, it was done, and her parents had gone back to sleep. Kelsey lay in her bed, her mind racing. Michelle’s passport, which she’d have to use to match the name on Peter’s ticket, was still in her desk drawer. She had Googled the details—the passport wouldn’t have been canceled unless her family sent in a request. And as far as Kelsey knew, they hadn’t. Even if she were to get questioned at the airport, she would cry and say she had taken it by accident. She would pack dark colors and high-heeled boots. She would let her eyebrows grow out. She could be Michelle—for a little while. For long enough to get there, then do the thing she was dreading. The only thing left to do was waiting for her in Paris, and though the time had finally come, the thought of it made her stomach feel like a nest of coiling snakes.